


Let's be alone together

by BarricadeKitten (Dominatrix)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur needs to use his words, Developing Relationship, Eames needs to vocalize his feelings, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Why am I always hurting Eames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 03:39:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10982583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dominatrix/pseuds/BarricadeKitten
Summary: When Arthur proposes the next step in their not-quite relationship, things go a bit wrong.





	Let's be alone together

**Author's Note:**

> It's another Inception fic, hurray! I've been OBSESSING about this pairing recently, and there are so many snippets and dialogues that are just waiting to be made into proper stories. For now, have a bit of fluff and pain.  
> Title is from the song by Fall Out Boy, which I adore.

It’s almost midnight, and Arthur has rarely been that content with himself.

When he managed to track down the most private details of the major drug boss from Liechtenstein – and who even knew that Liechtenstein had a drug business worth mentioning? – he had been quite pleased with himself. But this, leaning his head right over Eames’ heart, fingertips tracing the garish tattoos on the man’s chest and stomach…This might just be better.

“Eames” he murmurs, quite sure that the other man is not yet asleep because he _always_ snores when he’s lying on his back, a source of both amusement and agony to Arthur, depending on how sleep-deprived he is.

“Hm” the Brit rumbles, making Arthur’s face vibrate weirdly. “You have never heard of afterglow, have you?”

Artur snorts. “Not sure it’s still afterglow two hours later when you’re already dressed again.”

Eames skims Arthur’s bare upper half, following the ridges of his spine until his large palm rests over the waistband of the point man’s pyjama pants, just that side of decent. “Half-dressed, at most. But I’ll bite. What is it?”

Arthur takes a deep breath, fingers stilling over the playing card tattoo Eames got once when he was spectacularly drunk. “Do you want to come to Calgary with me?”

“A job, pet?” His voice sounds vaguely interested, but neither of them are desperate for money or adventure at the moment, content to wander around the city and fuck each other into the mattress.

“No. I have a place there, overlooking the river. We could spend some time.” He’s being vague on purpose; Eames has a talent of worming himself out of precise arrangements.

“In autumn? Isn’t it going to be bloody awful, with all the rain?” Eames chuckles when Arthur flicks his stomach playfully; he remembers their job in London a few months back when it was raining buckets and Eames was in a brilliant mood the whole time because it was _home_ , and pouring rain was a part of that. It had been only a bit endearing.

“How about Mombasa, then?”

Eames is still drawing mindless patterns on Arthur’s back, humming thoughtfully. “Darling, what has Stockholm done to you that you want to leave so bad?”

“It’s…we’ve been in hotel rooms for ages. I want to go _home_ , Eames. Let me take you home” he mumbles, nosing up the other man’s throat to his jaw, biting at the stubble there. His voice is half cool competence of a point man and half seductive begging; he has gotten many things using that voice before.

 

Eames sits up without warning, leaving Arthur to throw out an elbow on the mattress to keep balance. Arthur already opens his mouth to demand what’s going on, but he falls silent when he watches Eames running a hand over his face. He suddenly looks very tired, Arthur sees that, though Eames does make an effort not to look Arthur directly in the eyes.

“I can’t, Arthur. I can’t.” His voice is unusually quiet, and he’d clutching his hands together as if he were to confess a serious crime, not that Eames would be worried about such a thing.

Arthur sits up as well, scooting closer to Eames and putting a soothing hand on the Brit’s tattooed forearm, thumb drawing small circles on his skin.

“Why?”

Eames laughs, but it’s cold and cuts through the former peacefulness. When he speaks again, his voice is bitter. “Because that’s not what I signed up for!”

Arthur flinches, drawing back his hand unconsciously. He has a sick feeling in the stomach, and his voice won’t quite obey him when he tries to talk again. Somehow, he managed to read all of this completely wrong, but Arthur knows that his hurt professional pride is not the reason why his eyes are stinging with unshed tears.

“I see. I’ll...” He clenches his jaw when his voice gives up on him again, instead clambering out of the bed. The wooden floor is cold under his bare feet when he walks towards the closet. His hands barely shake when he opens the doors and pulls out a suit. He doesn’t know which one it is, it doesn’t matter right now. He’s going to leave, he’s going to leave Eames behind and he’s not going to think about what that means exactly till he’s far away and preferably five whiskeys deep.

“Don’t you dare run away now, Arthur.”

Arthur whips around when Eames tries to grab his shoulder, pushing him away forcefully so the other man has to scramble not to fall onto the floor. His blood is rising quickly, and what has been building for months – years, maybe – all breaks out now.

“I’m not the one doing the running! We’ve been doing this for _years_ now, Eames. Doing a job together, pretending we can’t stand each other, finishing it and booking a hotel room until one of us has the next offer. And then doing it all over again. I’ve been fine with it for a long time, but now I want something more.”

 

Eames looks at him with wide, disbelieving eyes, and Arthur thinks they might actually be fine when the Brit opens his mouth. But then he shakes his head, shoulders dropping in resignation.

“I can’t.”

“But why?” Arthur asks quietly, not bothering to conceal the heartbreak in his voice.

 “You wouldn’t understand.” Eames drops his eyes to the floor and Arthur just wants to shake him.

He steps towards Eames, grabbing him by the upper arms, and it should look ridiculous; both men only half-dressed, with Arthur’s frame about half the size of Eames’. To Arthur’s surprise, the forger doesn’t try to escape his hold, and somehow, it only makes him angrier.

“If you’d talk to me, I just might!”

“I don’t know how to do this, alright?” Eames shouts, not as much angry as he is desperate. His gaze is all over the place, giving him a slightly mad look, but he still doesn’t try to pull away. “I’ve never had…this, any of this.” Finally, he looks at Arthur again, eyes an impossible mixture of colours, feelings rioting in them violently.

“I’ve always been alone” he adds quietly, after they have locked eyes for a long moment.

 

Arthur softens instantly, loosening his grip on the forger’s arms, but still holding on to him. “Eames. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

The Brit looks pained, and now he is pulling away from Arthur, like the point man had always expected he would be one day. Having been prepared for years doesn’t lessen the pain when his hands suddenly only grip air. “I didn’t…Forget it. Forget I even said anything.”

“No, I won’t. I want this to work. If that’s not what you want, then fine.” Arthur is nothing if not stubborn, which makes him such an amazing point man. He gives up on lost causes, that’s true, but he’s not quite ready to classify Eames as one. There’s someone in Eames’ eyes that tells him he shouldn’t let go. “Just talk to me.”

Eames closes his eyes while taking a deep breath. When he opens them again he looks so vulnerable it physically hurts the point man to see Eames like that. “I want you, Arthur, for as long as you’ll have me.” His voice is low and hushed, like he’s telling a secret, and maybe he is. “I just don’t know how to keep you.”

Arthur can’t handle it any longer; he places a hand against Eames’ cheek and marvels at how Eames presses into his palm reverently. “How about we figure that out together?” he proposes quietly, stroking over the forger’s cheekbone with his thumb.

“You’ll get sick of me.” It’s only a whisper, spoken into the quiet space between them – only a few inches left between their faces, with their foreheads not just yet touching. It’s almost Victorian, the way every little shift of Eames’ stubble against Arthur’s palm sends shivers along his spine.

He smiles gently while he lifts his other hand to Eames’ neck, effectively cradling the man between his softly cupped hands.

“I once spent three weeks with you in that Ukranian safe house, snowed in, with a gunshot wound in my arm. I think I’ll be fine.”

Eames hums at the memory, slowly placing his own large hands on Arthur’s waist. “So…” he begins slowly, “Calgary?”

 

It’s almost one in the morning, and Arthur has never been this happy.


End file.
